Always the Last to Know
by Sherlock'sScarf
Summary: Thanks to an enlightening conversation with Sarah, John comes to recognize a change in his feelings for Sherlock. Romance. Part 1 of the "No Heart For Me Like Yours" series. Sherlock/John Preslash/Slash. Français disponibles - notes voir.
1. Chapter 1

Author note: This story takes place in the BBC Sherlock 'verse, after "A Scandal in Belgravia" and before "The Reichenbach Fall".

Many thanks to my beta, the wonderful PrincessNala!

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very sad. However, if Mr. Cumberbatch feels a need for a little temporary ownership, I'd be happy to oblige. ;)

Warnings: Sherlock/John Preslash/Slash. Nothing too racy.

This fic has been translated to French by the lovely Hanako_Hayashi. Read it here: http: / www. fanfiction. net /s/8128168 /1/ Toujours_le_dernier_a_comprendre

Traduction française par la belle Hanako_Hayashi. Lisez-le ici: http: / www. fanfiction. net /s/8128168 /1/ Toujours_le_dernier_a_comprendre

"_**The man is always the last to know when Cupid has struck him."  
>– Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress<strong>_

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**Chapter 1**

"_**The truth is rarely pure and never simple."**_

– _**Oscar Wilde**_

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Sarah looked up from the paperwork covering her desk to see John Watson shrugging into his jacket, wincing as he eased the left sleeve up over his scarred shoulder. He never said anything about it, but she had noticed that he seemed to struggle with pain from his old war wound in the evenings after a particularly long and grueling shift.

"Fancy a quick pint, John?"

John turned to smile at Sarah. Things had been tense between the two of them at first, following the breakup, but working together had eased the awkwardness, and they had slowly developed an easy friendship. They often stopped in at the nearby pub for a pint after work, taking the opportunity to decompress after a hard day at the clinic. The ex-army doctor was a reserved and quiet man, but had a fierce loyalty to those he considered to be his friends. Sarah was glad that she could count herself among that select number.

"I could murder a Guinness, Doctor Sawyer. Shall we go?"

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Settled into a corner in the quiet pub, John and Sarah discussed the cases they had seen that day, laughing over the man who had tried to persuade Sarah to sign a fake doctor's certificate to cover for having slept through his alarm, sighing over John's thirteen-year-old bulimic patient. They both knew how sad her story was likely to be over the coming years. Following that sad discussion, they paused, and sat in silence for a few minutes.

Sarah noticed that John seemed unusually pensive. She asked, "John, is something else on your mind? You've been preoccupied with something for a couple of days now. Care to talk about it?"

For a moment, she wasn't even sure that John had heard her. Finally, he sighed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Yeah, there's something that's been bothering me. I can't quite figure it out, and I can't exactly talk with Sherlock about it.

"Sarah, why does everyone assume that Sherlock and I are a couple? I'm straight, I've _always_ been straight. Sherlock and I aren't involved. _Why_ does everyone think that we are?"

Sarah shook her head in disbelief. He really didn't understand it, did he? It wasn't just a polite denial – John genuinely didn't know what people were seeing. Well, she'd spared his feelings back at the time of the breakup, and clearly it hadn't done any good. Maybe it was time to tell him a few home truths.

"John, you and Sherlock _are_ involved."

"We're not together, Sarah, you know that. We're just friends!" John's honestly bewildered expression confirmed Sarah's impulse to lay it on the line. It was time.

"Okay. John. Can you listen to me for a couple of minutes? Don't say anything, don't defend or argue. Just listen and then take what I say under advisement. Can you do that?" John nodded, forehead wrinkled in consternation.

"First thing to consider, before we delve into the relationship between you and Sherlock, is your sexual identity…for God's sake, John, stop gaping at me like that. I've seen you naked, and we're still friends. Surely we can discuss this?"

John nodded again, dumbly. Sarah pressed on, determined not to allow embarrassment to stop her, now that she had committed to this course of action.

"You took just as many psychology courses in med school as I did. You know quite well that the vast majority of people aren't a zero or a six on the Kinsey scale. Most people have some attraction, at some point in their lives, to someone of the same gender. You know that thirty-seven percent of men will have a sexual experience with another man during their lifetime. So why on earth would it be such a stretch to think that you might not be a zero on the Kinsey scale? There's a lot of room between zero and six."

John had flushed a faint pink, but he said nothing, keeping his tacit agreement to listen and consider her words.

"Second of all, John, while Sherlock's personality drives me mad, and while he may have all the social skills and charm of a clever toddler, your flatmate is a _gorgeous_ man. Those grey eyes, the razor-sharp cheekbones, his delightful curls, that body that looks so good in that damn swoopy coat – who _wouldn't_ consider the possibilities?"

John goggled at Sarah. "You think Sherlock is…hot?"

Sarah arched an eyebrow at him. "_You_ think Sherlock is…_not_? I thought we were having an honest discussion here, John. Empirically speaking, you must acknowledge that the man _is_ attractive."

John dropped his gaze to his pint glass, biting his lip. Sarah watched him struggle internally. She decided to continue.

"Do you know why I broke up with you, John?"

John looked up in surprise. "You said you didn't like dating someone whose life was in danger on a regular basis."

Sarah sighed. "That was the reason I gave at the time. I knew you wouldn't hear me if I told you the real reason, and I didn't want you to shrug me off as a jealous nutter. I wanted to keep you as a friend, so that explanation was easier. It's not that it wasn't true, either, it just wasn't complete."

"So, you think that I'm ready to hear the real reason now," said John. He tilted his head slightly to the side, an attentive expression on his face.

"Yes, John," said Sarah. "I think you are ready to cope with this little, inconvenient truth. When we met, I liked you a lot. You were sweet and kind, funny and charming. You always seemed to have this wall up between you and the world, but it wasn't a huge fortress of a wall, just a little barrier. I knew you were a veteran, that you'd been invalided home after a tour in Afghanistan. I assumed the barrier was from that, and I didn't worry about it.

"When you asked me out, I was very glad. I enjoyed your company, thought you were someone I'd like to know better. Then we went to the circus..."

"…And you discovered that my life is always in danger, and suddenly yours was, too." John looked at Sarah sadly. "We've been over this before, Sarah. So far you're covering old territory."

"…_Then we went to the circus_," growled Sarah, overriding his interruption, "_with Sherlock_. And I saw you two together." She sighed, signaling for another pint. When the server had delivered fresh pints, she took a bolstering gulp, and continued.

"Seeing you with Sherlock was amazing, John. At first, I thought it was just going to the circus, us being out on a date together, and I was thrilled to see this whole other side to you. You were crackling with energy, you were fun, witty, energetic…twice the man you were in the clinic. I couldn't wait to get closer to you, get to know that side of you. Even the terrible experience of nearly being skewered by deranged circus performers didn't deter me."

"Over the following weeks, though, I realised that the only time I saw you like that, so vibrant and alive, was when you were with _him_. With Sherlock. You never sparked like that with me, never…" she bit her lip and shook her head. "It was like…it was…like Sleeping Beauty."

John sat up straight in confusion. "Sleeping Beauty?"

"You know how in Sleeping Beauty the princess has been put under a spell, so she's asleep for hundreds of years, and then the prince kisses her and wakes her up?" Sarah felt so ridiculous, but she was going to finish this analogy, awkward as it was, and make her point. "You were…sleepwalking, John. You were half alive, until Sherlock came along, the handsome prince, and woke you up. How could I compete with that?"

Am I the _princess_ in this scenario, Sarah?" asked John, bewildered. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that Sherlock _completes_ you, John. When you're with him, you are twice the man that you are any other time. You are _brilliant_. And I couldn't handle being in a relationship with someone who was only really, fully himself when he was with someone else, not me. Does that make sense?"

John seemed stunned. He was gaping soundlessly at Sarah, reminding her so much of a goldfish that she started to giggle. The stress of laying it all out for him, telling him how it had made her feel, added to her near-hysteria, and she laughed until tears came to her eyes. John sat motionless throughout this explosion, staring blankly ahead. Finally Sarah sobered, and reached out to pat John's nerveless hand.

"So perhaps, John, you need to take some time to re-examine your life, your heart, and, yes, your sexuality. Because if there were someone who made me feel the way that Sherlock obviously makes you feel, I wouldn't give a tupenny damn what gender they were. I'd never let them get away."


	2. Chapter 2

Author note: This story takes place in the BBC Sherlock 'verse, after "A Scandal in Belgravia" and before "The Reichenbach Fall".

Many thanks to my beta, the wonderful PrincessNala!

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very sad. However, if Mr. Cumberbatch feels a need for a little temporary ownership, I'd be happy to oblige. ;)

Warnings: Sherlock/John Preslash/Slash. Nothing too racy.

"_**The man is always the last to know when Cupid has struck him."  
>– Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress<strong>_

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**Chapter 2**

"_**All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them."**_

_**Galileo Galilei**_

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John stood on the footbridge, gazing toward the lights of Regent's College. A light breeze ruffled his sandy hair. He had stood there for over an hour, trying to wrap his brain around Sarah's bombshell from earlier.

For it truly _was_ a bombshell. John didn't like to think of himself as being ignorant of his own feelings and inclinations. He liked to believe that he was self-aware and secure in his identity. Now, in light of what Sarah had said, he wasn't sure he knew anything about himself.

Perhaps what he needed was to apply logic – Sherlock would certainly recommend that course of action in any mystery that needed to be unraveled. _Right, then. Time to 'apply Sherlock's methods'._ John's lips quirked into a wry smile at the thought.

Taking Sarah's statements point by point, then. His sexuality first: John had always considered himself to be perfectly straight. Yes, there had been that incident back when he was at university, where he and a mate, Dennis, had been playfully scuffling over a rugby ball, and suddenly it turned from a wrestling match to something more, something heated and urgent and desperate…

Afterward, John had tried to stroke Dennis' cheek. It seemed to galvanise Dennis into action, causing him to lunge up and away, scrambling desperately into his trousers, and then out the door. Dennis had avoided John after that, and John had pushed the incident firmly out of his mind. It was just experimentation during his university years, and it seemed like everyone had a story like that in their past. It didn't indicate any real attraction to men, right?

Right?

Hmm. Maybe not completely right.

John liked women, particularly taller, willowy women. John liked the curve of their long legs, the sway of their hips. Unlike many shorter men, he enjoyed the sensation of looking up at a beautiful woman, reveling in the long curve of a woman's throat. But there was no question that John liked women.

So, considering the things Sarah had brought up, did that necessarily mean he _didn't_ like men? He realised that he was often rather fascinated by actors like Rupert Everett, Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Day-Lewis. He had always told himself that he appreciated their acting skills, nothing more – yet he always seemed to be fascinated by their appearance.

Hmmm. They all seemed to have something in common…cheekbones like razorblades, tall, dark and handsome. Well, okay, _not_ dark. They were all long and lean, but quite fair-skinned, with their dark hair contrasting beautifully against it…

_Bugger. Bugger bugger bugger._

Sarah might be onto something about his sexuality. These were certainly not strictly heterosexual thoughts.

"Stop stalling, John," he muttered to himself. _What about what she had said about Sherlock? _

John had been mesmerised by the consulting detective from the start. Sherlock was absolutely riveting, brilliant, dynamic. John had managed to overlook some rather extreme personality flaws, simply because of his fascination with this enigma of a man. He had found himself caught up in Sherlock's orbit, swept along with whatever the detective wanted him to do.

Upon examination, that was _not_ like John. He had strong morals, strong principles. John was willing to take orders – one had to be willing to follow orders in the army – but he was still quite sure of who he was. He was not so weak that he would blindly follow anyone that told him what to do. Yet that was exactly what he did with Sherlock.

Were those the actions of a mere friend? Or was it a sign that there was something more in his feelings for his flatmate?

_You were…sleepwalking, John. You were half alive, until Sherlock came along, the handsome prince, and woke you up._

_I'm saying that Sherlock completes you, John. When you're with him, you are twice the man that you are any other time. You are brilliant. _

_If there were someone who made me feel the way that Sherlock obviously makes you feel, I wouldn't give a tupenny damn what gender they were. I'd never let them get away._

Bugger.

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John had been wandering the pathways of Regent's Park for most of the night, barely noticing the cold, wishing for his cane now and then, as his leg seemed to be bothering him a great deal.

Fragments of many conversations over the past year came back to him. Conversations where everyone seemed to be implying that there was more to his relationship with Sherlock than a mere flatmate situation.

_Since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?_

_I'll bring a candle for the table…it's more romantic._

_Oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. Gotcha!_

_Somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face I'd avoid your nose and your teeth too._

_My friends are so wrong about you. You're a great boyfriend…and Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man._

_We're not a couple._

_Yes you are._

_For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay._

_Well I _am_. Look at us both._

_Sherlock and I aren't involved. Why does everyone think that we are?_

_John, you and Sherlock _are_ involved._

John stopped dead in his tracks, staggering under the realisation that Sarah (and all of the others – even Moriarty!) had somehow seen in John something that he didn't even know about himself. He was _already_ involved with Sherlock. It wasn't a physical involvement – yet – but emotionally, he was more wrapped up in the brilliant detective than he had ever been with _anyone_.

Dear God.

Arriving again at the footbridge that led toward the Outer Circle and Baker Street, John wearily crossed the lake, pausing once more to look back toward the lights of the college. As he leaned on the rail, he remembered standing here on a sunny afternoon with Sherlock a few weeks before. They had been returning from a newly solved case, a stolen antique vase that the British Museum had been desperate to recover. Sherlock was explaining the series of deductions that had led him to the thief, a young curator trainee who had found a buyer in Prague.

John had stood mesmerised, watching the play of light reflected from the water below onto Sherlock's face. He had listened raptly to his genius friend as he described the thought process that had led to the solution, watching the animation of his long, lean face, admiring his astonishing cheekbones.

_Still thinking you're a zero on the Kinsey scale, John?_

Then Sherlock had glanced up and met John's eyes, just as a flash of the reflected light from the water had played across Sherlock's eyes for a moment, transforming them from their usual silvery-grey to a rich platinum fire. It had seemed to John as though time slowed down. They had stood, gazing at each other for what was probably only a few seconds, but had felt like hours, then John had dragged his eyes away. Time resumed its normal speed again, and Sherlock, after a moment's pause, continued on with his explanation as though the moment had never existed.

At the time, John had shrugged that moment aside, had firmly squelched any feelings about it. Now it came back to him vividly, striking him as hard and fast as a train. The shape of Sherlock's face, the amazing planes and angles that should have been strange and alien, yet somehow coalesced into…_beauty_. He was beautiful. His eyes, his cheekbones, the long, swanlike curve of his neck. How could John have hidden this from himself for so long?

John was smitten with his flatmate. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

_Bugger_.


	3. Chapter 3

Author note: This story takes place in the BBC Sherlock 'verse, after "A Scandal in Belgravia" and before "The Reichenbach Fall".

Many thanks to my beta, the wonderful PrincessNala!

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very sad. However, if Mr. Cumberbatch feels a need for a little temporary ownership, I'd be happy to oblige. ;)

Warnings: Sherlock/John Preslash/Slash. Nothing too racy.

"_**The man is always the last to know when Cupid has struck him."  
>– Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress<strong>_

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**Chapter 3**

"_**Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within."**_

_**James Arthur Baldwin**_

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Dawn lent a rosy hue to the fog on Baker Street as John finally let himself into 221B. He had to lean heavily on the banister to support his weight, as his leg threatened to give way beneath him. It did no good to try to convince himself that the limp was psychosomatic – his body was unwilling to listen to logic. Clearly the stress of the previous night's revelation combined with walking all night was too much strain.

John eased the door open, hoping against hope that Sherlock would be asleep, or out with Lestrade, or simply sunk into one of his silent trances, so that John could slip into his room without a confrontation. If Sherlock could so easily read his thoughts about trivial things, how clearly would John's inner turmoil be written on his face?

Please let him be asleep.

"Back with Sarah, John?" Damn it, Sherlock was planted squarely in his armchair, as if waiting for John's arrival. "I never pegged you as one for revisiting failed relationships. Did you spend the night on her sofa again?" Sherlock's acerbic tone felt like lemon juice on a paper cut.

John's weary eyes met the cool, silvery gaze of his flatmate. He couldn't summon a coherent explanation of his overnight absence, and certainly he wasn't ready to discuss these new feelings churning about inside of his chest. But one look into those intense, upturned orbs made his stomach flip over and twist inside. How had he kept himself in the dark about his feelings for so long?

As John struggled to try to find words to fill the silence, words that might deflect the detective from using his deductive skills, Sherlock rose slowly, approaching John much as a tiger might approach a young fawn, prowling around it in order to cut off its escape route. Sherlock's nostrils flared as he turned his laserlike scrutiny on John.

"Sorry, I spoke too soon. It definitely wasn't the sofa. You spent the night outdoors, walking in a park by the look and smell of you. What has happened, John? Something has caused you great distress. Your dilated eyes, your tremor, even your colour tell me that you are feeling extreme anxiety."

Shrugging off his jacket in the hopes of distracting Sherlock's gaze away from his face, John decided to go with a partial truth. "I had a difficult day yesterday, with a really upsetting case of a young teen with an eating disorder at the end of the day. Sarah and I went out for a couple of pints, and then I walked around the park. I needed to clear my mind a bit. Now, if you'll excuse me, Sherlock, I'm truly knackered, and I'm going to try to get some sleep."

Sherlock stood gazing at John for a long moment, that searchlamp gaze sweeping over his face, taking in every detail. Then he stepped back, nodded his head coolly at John, and said only, "Sleep well."

_Right._

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John lay in his bed, gazing sleeplessly at the ceiling, unsure of what his next step should be. Yes, he had come to terms with the fact that he had feelings for his flatmate. Hell, if he was totally honest with himself, he was _in love_ with the brilliant detective.

Now what?

Just because John had discovered his feelings toward Sherlock didn't mean Sherlock felt anything other than friendship for him. Remembered snippets of conversations did nothing to reassure him.

_You don't have a girlfriend then?_

_Girlfriend…no. Not really my area._

_Oh, right...do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way._

_I know it's fine._

Great – John felt fairly certain that Sherlock's tendencies included attraction to the male form. However…

_So you've got a boyfriend._

_No._

_Right, okay. You're unattached. Just like me. Fine, good._

_... John, erm... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest I'm really not looking for any- _

_No, no, that's not what I... no! I'm just saying... it's all fine._

_... Good. Thank you._

In retrospect, John realised that he had practically been throwing himself at the younger man, and in reliving that particular conversation in his mind, he realised that he had been pretty firmly shot down.

Of course, John wasn't sure if Sherlock had ever allowed himself to have an emotional relationship. John thought he had seen something between Sherlock and Irene Adler, yet Sherlock had beaten her and sent her on her way without a backward glance.

_I've always been able to keep myself distant…divorce myself from feelings…Interesting, yes? Emotions…the grease on the lens, the fly in the ointment…_

Sherlock didn't _do_ feelings.

So not only was he dealing with years of conditioning against being sexually involved with another man, but he was in love with his emotionally unavailable best friend.

There's no way this amazing, _magnificent_ man would ever look at a scruffy, limping army doctor as anything but a friend and sidekick. John knew Sherlock was way out of his league.

John groaned and covered his head with a pillow. Slowly, sleep finally claimed him.


	4. Chapter 4

Author note: This story takes place in the BBC Sherlock 'verse, after "A Scandal in Belgravia" and before "The Reichenbach Fall".

Many thanks to my beta, the wonderful PrincessNala!

Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing. This makes me very sad. However, if Mr. Cumberbatch feels a need for a little temporary ownership, I'd be happy to oblige. ;)

Warnings: Sherlock/John Preslash/Slash. Nothing too racy.

"_**The man is always the last to know when Cupid has struck him."  
>– Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress<strong>_

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**Chapter 4**

"_**A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous."**_

_**Ingrid Bergman**_

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Late afternoon sun slanting cross his face woke John. Groaning, he glanced at the clock, and was stunned to see that it was nearly teatime. It would probably take days to reset his body clock to its normal routine thanks to his all night walking session.

After a quick shower, John headed to the kitchen for a restoring cup of tea. The flat was silent, so Sherlock must be out_. Thank God_. After boiling the kettle and making a large mug of tea, he ambled into the living room, hoping to watch some crap telly and turn his brain off for a while. The Sherlock dilemma was exhausting him.

Slumping into his armchair, John turned on the television, and tried to lose himself in _Snog, Marry, Avoid_. He quickly realised that he wasn't following a word of it, and with a sigh, turned it off. Back to his own dilemma.

After a night of decidedly homoerotic dreams featuring one admittedly sexy detective with cool, grey eyes, John had to concede the fact that he was indeed attracted to Sherlock. Sarah was right; he wasn't a zero on the Kinsey scale, and Sherlock _was_ hot.

So, sexuality and attraction aside, John had a serious problem. He loved living with Sherlock, loved everything from the adrenaline rush when they were on a case to the companionable nights spent listening to Sherlock mercilessly dissect _Big Brother_, or some other ridiculous reality show. Sherlock made him feel more alive than he ever had. How could John risk ruining that?

If he let Sherlock know how he felt, it was quite likely that it would ruin everything. Sherlock wouldn't be comfortable around him anymore, and the tension would be unbearable.

The solution seemed obvious, then. John would simply have to find a way to bury his feelings for his friend deep, and keep things as they were. He couldn't risk losing what he did have with Sherlock, even if taking the risk could possibly lead to something so much more. There was simply too much to lose.

The front door opened and closed, and swift footsteps raced up the stairs.

_Right. Game face on, then._

Sherlock burst into the room, a swirl of coattails and energy_. I wonder if he knows he's making an entrance? I'll bet he'd love to have double doors to burst through – so much more dramatic._

"John. You're finally up." Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, then prowled across the room to curl onto the sofa like an overgrown housecat. John found himself the target of Sherlock's cool gaze, and yet again, had the impression of a tiger stalking its prey._ Is everything he does feline?_

"So what have you decided, then?"

"About what?" John gasped.

"About the issue that kept you awake and wandering the park all night, and kept you awake until midmorning. About the problem that has so consumed you that you are sitting here in the dark, no television, no book, just thinking. Thinking about whether or not to reveal your feelings to the object of your affection."

"How did…what…you don't…"

"All very well put, John, with your usual concise logic, but I'd like to hear something more specific." Sherlock's eyes were crinkling, his lips quirking up into an amused smile.

"How do you know what I've been thinking about?" John's lips were suddenly so _dry_. He licked them anxiously, and saw the detective's quicksilver gaze flick to his mouth. _God, how could he possibly hope to keep anything from the world's most observant man?_

"You are such an open book, John. Your every thought is written on your face, especially when it comes to affairs of the heart." Sherlock shifted in his chair, leaning forward to meet John's gaze forthrightly. "But seriously, John – what have you decided to do?"

"What…what do you think I should do, Sherlock? How do I know if…if…the 'object of my affection' returns my feelings at all? This…person…has made it clear in the past that they were completely uninterested in a relationship. " John watched him carefully.

"Completely, John?" Sherlock's velvety baritone sent shivers down John's spine. _How had he not noticed what that voice did to him before now? _"This…person…hasn't dropped _any_ hints that the original position has changed?"

"How would I know?"

"You know my methods, John. Apply them." Sherlock sank back onto the sofa, long fingers steepled beneath his chin, clearly waiting for John to solve the problem.

John tilted his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes to avoid Sherlock's gaze. _Right, because 'applying his methods' hasn't given me enough grief in the last 24 hours._

Still, Sherlock had told him to do it, and John never denied anything the brilliant detective requested. So John thought back, looking for clues about his flatmate's current feelings.

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Vivaldi's_ The Four Seasons_ had long been a favorite of John's, and _Summer_ was the best part. A few weeks before, he had requested that Sherlock play it for him, and Sherlock had rolled his eyes at him.

"Vivaldi, John? Really? How plebian. Why not go the whole way, and request that I play something by George Michael or the Spice Girls? A whole world of astonishing violin composers out there, like Stenhammer or Arensky, and you request Vivaldi?"

Stung, John had replied, "Did it ever occur to you that Vivaldi was popular for a reason? Besides, it's my favorite piece of violin music, and I'm old enough to feel secure in my musical taste. I'm not going to apologize for liking Vivaldi…or George Michael, for that matter."

Sherlock had stared back at him for a moment, then the corners of his eyes creased, and his lips curved up into an amused smile. "Bravo, John. I love that about you…you always stand up to me."

Without another word, he set the violin beneath his chin, turned to the window, and swept into a breathtaking rendition of Vivaldi's _Summer_.

Remembering that conversation now, John realised that Sherlock had played Vivaldi regularly since then. Given his regard of Vivaldi as "plebian," could it be that he was playing it solely to please John?

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John's mind raced back over hundreds of other conversations with Sherlock, looking for more clues.

_That, ah— thing that you did. That you, um, you offered to do. That was, uh, good._

_I'm glad no one saw that._

_Hm?_

_You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk._

_People do little else._

_Are you coming?_

_If you want me to._

_Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger._

_Listen. What I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one._

_John! You are amazing! You are fantastic!_

_Yes, all right. Don't have to overdo it._

_You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable._

_We're going out tonight._

_Actually, I've uh, got a date._

_What?_

_It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun._

_That's what I was suggesting._

_xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx_

Maybe things weren't so hopeless after all.

John raised his head, meeting Sherlock's limpid gaze. "I think I might have a possible solution to my problem."

"Wonderful." Sherlock leaned forward, watching John closely. "What's the solution?"

"An experiment, Sherlock. If you'd indulge me?"

Sherlock's eyes crinkled with amusement at the role reversal, and John's breath caught in his throat. _Those eyes!_ He stood, stepped around the coffee table, and seated himself on the sofa beside Sherlock. Leaning forward, John stopped with only a few centimetres between their faces. Sherlock was absolutely still, as if he'd been carved from marble.

Slowly, John closed the gap between them, tentatively brushing Sherlock's full lips with his own. To his amazement, Sherlock leaned into the kiss, his lips softening against John's. John lightly traced Sherlock's lower lip with the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock responded by deepening the kiss, their tongues circling gently, then with more passion. John's fingers curled into those amazingly soft, inky curls, and he pulled Sherlock closer. Lips sliding together, tongues exploring and claiming, breathing into each other's mouths…it was better than anything John had ever experienced. Finally the kiss tapered off into softer, gentler kisses, then they slowly pulled apart, gazing into each other's eyes.

Trembling, John raised a hand to caress his friend's cheek. Sherlock's eyes half lidded, and he leaned into John's hand like a cat being stroked. _Everything about him really _is_ feline._

"Sherlock?" John waited, breathless, for Sherlock to speak.

Sherlock reached out and gently curled his fingers around the back of John's neck, drawing him forward so that their foreheads met. Silvery upturned eyes gazed lovingly into wide hazel ones. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up into a sweet, affectionate smile.

"I knew you'd get there in the end."


End file.
